By Haile Degefa for Amjambo Africa
July 18, 2026, the eve of the FIFA World Cup final.
American Airlines Flight AA578 was scheduled to fly from DFW, Dallas, to JFK, New York. I sat in 33A, the last seat at the tail of the plane, due to land at 9 p.m. Everything seemed on track, and my mind was already in New York: Spain vs. Argentina, Yamal vs. Messi, de la Fuente vs. Scaloni. Who would lift the trophy? Who would win the Golden Ball, the Golden Boot? But first, a plan of my own: meeting a friend and taking in a few city landmarks before checking in.
I streamed the third-place match on the inflight Wi-Fi.
England beating France 6-4 in Miami, Bukayo Saka scoring a hat trick and Jude Bellingham dribbling from the halfway line for one of the goals of the tournament. France, having trailed 4-0 at halftime, rallied through a Kylian Mbappe brace and goals from Bradley Barcola and Ousmane Dembele, not enough to reverse the result, but enough to hand Mbappe a back-to-back Golden Boot with 10 goals and make him the all-time top scorer in World Cup history with 22, one ahead of Messi. It was England’s best result on foreign soil, and Didier Deschamps’ fourth-place finish closed out 14 years in charge of Les Bleus, eight years after he’d won it all.
Sitting back to reflect on the past 38 days, I thought of everything that had unfolded: record-breaking hosts, incredible fan cultures, small nations rising to the occasion, superstars delivering. When I got my FIFA accreditation on April 30, I hadn’t expected to feel this overwhelmed, despite a decade covering Olympics and World Athletics Championships. My first match in person was Curacao’s debut against four-time champions Germany in Houston, a 7-1 win before 68,000 fans clad in white. I was starstruck through the first 45 minutes and went on to attend more than 20 national teams’ games, watching greatness up close in mixed zones, press conferences and open training sessions.
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America Showed Its Identity to the World
This was a World Cup of firsts, the first hosted by three nations together: the USA, Canada and Mexico, with 78 of 104 matches and 11 of 16 host cities in the USA. Mexico’s Estadio Azteca became the first stadium to host three World Cup openers, kicking off with a 2-0 win over South Africa. Throughout, America showed its scale and warmth, every stadium filled not just with traveling fans but diaspora communities cheering as if every team were playing at home. The numbers told their own story: 6.8 million fans in stadiums, close to 10 million more at fan festivals, 48 national teams, 308 goals, a global TV audience of 6 billion, and close to $13 billion in revenue: all World Cup records.
It was in this reflective mood that a voice from the cockpit startled me: a thunderstorm over New York meant an emergency diversion to Baltimore. We hovered for an hour, taxied for another and were told we’d spend the night there, our flight rebooked for 11:15 a.m., dangerously close to FIFA’s media deadline. Unable to find another flight, I scrambled for an Amtrak seat instead, the last one on a fully booked five-carriage train, and spent the night at the airport dreading delays, technical issues, overbooking — anything that could cost me the final. It wasn’t my first scare; three days earlier, delayed flights had nearly cost me the Argentina-England semifinal, and only a mad dash got me into the Atlanta stadium in time.
The World Cup never stopped delivering:
Messi’s magic, emotional farewells from Ronaldo, Neuer, Modric and Neymar, brilliance from Mbappe, Bellingham, Kane and Haaland, the joy of Cape Verde’s fairytale run, the Netherlands’ orange march, Norway’s “Ru,” and stadiums singing “Sweet Caroline” and “Wonderwall” together. Young stars like Gilberto Mora, Pau Cubarsi and Lamine Yamal announced themselves, while giants like Brazil, Portugal, Germany and the Netherlands fell early, proof the 48-team format had leveled the field.
The Amtrak got me to Newark on time, and the three-hour ride gave me space to relive a month spent shoulder to shoulder with Ronaldo, Messi, Bellingham, Kane, Deschamps, Ancelotti, Scaloni and Tuchel, and legends like Alan Shearer, Danny Murphy and Andriy Shevchenko, alongside writers Jonathan Wilson and Guillem Balague. I learned what real professionalism looks like in this business, and I won’t forget Scaloni breaking his own secrecy policy to hand veteran journalist Enrique Marquez a lineup reveal.
The final was a spectacle before a ball was kicked. Presidents and royals in attendance, and a Super Bowl-style halftime show from Madonna, Justin Bieber, Shakira and BTS. Then Spain won it, dethroning Argentina 1-0 through a 106th-minute Ferran Torres goal, one of the most lopsided finals in memory. Argentina sat deep all night, finished 120 minutes without a shot on target, and fell further behind when Enzo Fernandez was sent off in stoppage time. Emiliano Martinez made a record 11 saves, but it was never enough; Messi’s brilliance alone couldn’t crack a Spanish side built on structure and discipline. What followed the whistle was a stain on a great tournament. Argentina’s players brawled and turned their backs on Spain’s celebrations, conduct branded shameful across the football world.
Spain’s haul of individual honors matched their dominance: Rodri (Golden Ball), Ferran Torres (Man of the Match), Unai Simón (Golden Glove) and Pau Cubarsi (Best Young Player), with Mbappe (Golden Boot) and Michael Olise (Most Assists) France’s lone bright spots.
It was the journey of a lifetime; one I’ll treasure for as long as I live. Well done, FIFA. Well done, America.
My flight home to Dallas left right on schedule.
